Kaz
!!jca5Uh1HZ90
(ID: eR+kIBha)
10/6/2025, 10:30:55 AM
No.6315150
You can’t help but feel misplaced, like a bright thread in a fabric worn too thin by many nights without rest or cleaning. You feel rested, fed and clean – and almost guilty for it. As if you’ve wandered into a dream of the living while everyone else here is still trying to reconcile the before and after their world ended.
Colonel Estevez seems to not have moved from his prior spot. As you and Harper step in, he’s already knees deep in the day’s operations. His lone eye scans the holotank with a critical glare, twitching as some aide or radio operator rattles off an update.
“1st Company’s advanced to Kiln Creek,” a tech reports, manipulating the holotank to reflect the new data. “They’re within visual range of Williamsburg Airport and reporting heavy damage to the structure. Doesn’t look like any of the surviving planes or shuttles are flightworthy.”
“Not that they can confirm until they pop the hood,” Harper stage-whispers.
Estevez grunts past the cigarette in his mouth, the embers flaring as he exhales through his mouth. “Tell them to proceed with caution. I want a full sweep for anything salvageable, even stuff that’s nailed down and the goddamned nails themselves. Priority is communications gear and fuel cells. Lethal force is authorized against squatters or looters who even show the slightest amount of resistance.”
“Understood, sir.”
The colonel leans back, rubbing his temple with the heel of his organic hand. Smoke wafts lazily from the cigarette in his mouth as his gaze flicks towards you and Harper.
“Park, Miss Butterfly,” he says at last, halfway between a greeting and an assessment. “Good timing. I was just about to send someone for you. I’d like to pick up from where we left off yesterday.”
You blink, utterly taken aback. Butterfly?
Harper scowls. “Dude.”
The aides glance up briefly, curiosity flickering behind tired eyes, before returning to their terminals. The hum of the tent doesn’t falter, but it does seem to tighten. As though the air itself is holding its breath.
Estevez stubs his cigarette out on his cybernetic arm, then jerks his head towards the rear of the tent, to a door minded by a pair of guards. “Surnames are SOP. You should pick one. Otherwise, someone else is gonna do it for you – and you might not like what sticks. Now, if you please – I can only spare a handful of minutes.”
He sounds almost…helpful. You’re not sure if Harper agrees. Not that it stops you from following deeper into the tent.
The colonel’s office is depressingly spartan, an exercise in repurposing and utilitarian application. The tables are repurposed picnic benches, and the main desk consists of a handful of crates and a plastic chair. The only decorations against the tan canvas and tarnished metal are a pair of flags – Old Glory, and the regiment’s standard.
(cont.)
Colonel Estevez seems to not have moved from his prior spot. As you and Harper step in, he’s already knees deep in the day’s operations. His lone eye scans the holotank with a critical glare, twitching as some aide or radio operator rattles off an update.
“1st Company’s advanced to Kiln Creek,” a tech reports, manipulating the holotank to reflect the new data. “They’re within visual range of Williamsburg Airport and reporting heavy damage to the structure. Doesn’t look like any of the surviving planes or shuttles are flightworthy.”
“Not that they can confirm until they pop the hood,” Harper stage-whispers.
Estevez grunts past the cigarette in his mouth, the embers flaring as he exhales through his mouth. “Tell them to proceed with caution. I want a full sweep for anything salvageable, even stuff that’s nailed down and the goddamned nails themselves. Priority is communications gear and fuel cells. Lethal force is authorized against squatters or looters who even show the slightest amount of resistance.”
“Understood, sir.”
The colonel leans back, rubbing his temple with the heel of his organic hand. Smoke wafts lazily from the cigarette in his mouth as his gaze flicks towards you and Harper.
“Park, Miss Butterfly,” he says at last, halfway between a greeting and an assessment. “Good timing. I was just about to send someone for you. I’d like to pick up from where we left off yesterday.”
You blink, utterly taken aback. Butterfly?
Harper scowls. “Dude.”
The aides glance up briefly, curiosity flickering behind tired eyes, before returning to their terminals. The hum of the tent doesn’t falter, but it does seem to tighten. As though the air itself is holding its breath.
Estevez stubs his cigarette out on his cybernetic arm, then jerks his head towards the rear of the tent, to a door minded by a pair of guards. “Surnames are SOP. You should pick one. Otherwise, someone else is gonna do it for you – and you might not like what sticks. Now, if you please – I can only spare a handful of minutes.”
He sounds almost…helpful. You’re not sure if Harper agrees. Not that it stops you from following deeper into the tent.
The colonel’s office is depressingly spartan, an exercise in repurposing and utilitarian application. The tables are repurposed picnic benches, and the main desk consists of a handful of crates and a plastic chair. The only decorations against the tan canvas and tarnished metal are a pair of flags – Old Glory, and the regiment’s standard.
(cont.)